I have never felt comfortable being the “host”. I enjoy spending time with friends, but I enjoy it much more at their house. I have always been this way, and I’m not entirely sure why. I thought about this a lot during our seven hour car trip back from visiting with friends at their house for a week. We had a great time, and I knew we were missed before we even left the driveway, but it occurred to me that if we had hosted them for a week, I’d have been heaving a sigh of relief when they left. Not because I didn’t want to be with them, but because I would feel such pleasure at having my house back. And I think that’s the crux for me – my home is my hideaway.
Which is so not what I set out to write about!
But here’s how it sort of relates: For Easter in 2006 I decided to host dinner at our house for a group of friends. One friend had to bring a folding table to plunk in the middle of the kitchen for the kids to sit at, and the weather was too snowy to have an outdoor egg hunt, but it was a rousing success. I cooked up most of the meal myself, and even made split pea soup with the leftover ham. It was fabulous!! I ate quite a bit of it, and froze some for later.
Tonight I pulled out the remainder of that soup from the freezer and ate it for dinner. I wasn’t sure how nearly two year old soup would be, but I’m here to report that it was as tasty as I remember. I polished off all that was left (about two mugs full).
And now, three hours later, I still feel full. I’m trying to convince myself I just ate too much of it, and that the soup itself was fine.
Mostly I am enjoying the peace and quiet of my house, with children asleep and just me (and the dog of course).